The Nameless Ones by John Connolly

Chapter XXXVI

Angel arrived at London Heathrow on a late-afternoon flight. He retrieved his bag without incident, although the airport remained baffling to him. It seemed to have been designed as a means of actively discouraging people from traveling. Had he been forced to change terminals for a connecting flight, he might have wept.

As he exited the baggage hall, a man appeared by his side: Paul Canton, one of the FBI legats attached to the US embassy in London.

‘Welcome back,’ said Canton.

‘I don’t remember booking a driver,’ said Angel. ‘And if I had, it wouldn’t have been you.’

Angel kept walking, following the signs for the Heathrow Express. Canton fell easily into step beside him, given that he had at least six inches on Angel and was a couple of decades younger. Canton had crossed paths with Angel, Louis, and Parker during their previous visit to London, one that had ended – perhaps inevitably, given those involved – in bloodshed. Canton had proven helpful, and probably saved them some time behind bars, but that didn’t mean Angel ever wanted to see him again. Like Louis, Angel was of the opinion that far too many US government employees had developed an interest in their affairs. Pretty soon, someone would be offering to strike a souvenir silver dollar with their faces on it.

‘I’ve been instructed to facilitate you,’ said Canton. ‘You have no idea how hard it was to say those words, by the way.’

‘If it’s any consolation, they were just as difficult to hear. Can you find me a gun?’

‘No.’

‘How about getting me my health back?’

‘Can’t do that either.’

‘Then what good are you to me?’

‘None at all, I hope.’ He handed Angel a card. ‘Just in case. The number has changed, by the way. I’m moving up in the world.’

‘It’s nice to see virtue rewarded,’ said Angel. ‘Your mother must be very proud.’

He didn’t look at the card before dropping it in his pocket. A crowd of people waited impatiently before the elevators for the Heathrow Express. Angel resented standing in line for anything. He associated it with prison. He glanced at his watch. Given the time, and the hordes in the terminal building, the Express was likely to be busy, and he’d be arriving in central London just in time for rush hour.

‘You have a car, right?’ he said.

‘A black one,’ said Canton. ‘It’s very clean.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Just that I don’t want to get it dirty.’

Canton looked pointedly at Angel’s suitcase, which had certainly seen better days but was too old to remember them. Angel followed the direction of Canton’s gaze, and reluctantly conceded the point.

‘Maybe we ought to just tie it to the roof,’ he said.

‘No, we can put it in the trunk. I have some plastic sheeting.’

‘What about me, do I have to go in the trunk, too?’

‘I guess you can ride up front.’

‘Will I have to talk to you?’

‘Only if you’re bored.’

‘Then lead the way. I figure my taxes are probably funding the car anyway.’

‘Not your taxes,’ said Canton. ‘You don’t pay any.’

‘Even better,’ said Angel. ‘And I hope you have candy.’

In the event, there was candy – boxes of Swedish Fish and Milk Duds – and some polite conversation passed between Angel and Canton on the journey, the former’s animosity toward the latter being general rather than specific, and arising from the aforementioned distrust of federal law enforcement. Canton’s radio was tuned to one of those classical music channels aimed at those anxious to improve themselves but hampered by short attention spans.

‘I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me why you’re here?’ said Canton at last, as they turned off Euston Road and entered London’s congestion zone.

‘I want to catch up with a friend,’ said Angel. ‘I may even take one of those bus tours. I didn’t have a chance last time I was here.’

‘Well, you were otherwise occupied, what with you and your buddies leaving a trail of bodies and all.’

‘A “trail” might be an exaggeration. And a couple of them were down to you, or so the newspapers said, unless you plan on demanding a retraction.’

‘Thankfully, I wasn’t actually named.’

‘You shouldn’t hide your light under a bushel,’ said Angel.

‘It wasn’t my light I was hiding.’

Which was true. Canton had taken the heat for killings that would otherwise have left Parker, Angel, and Louis with awkward questions to answer. It didn’t seem to have hurt his career, Angel thought, unless he was being forced to moonlight as a limo driver to make ends meet.

‘So this isn’t a business trip?’ said Canton.

‘It’s personal all the way.’

‘Huh,’ said Canton. ‘I wasn’t aware that SAC Ross had expanded into leisure tourism.’

‘I think he’s planning for his retirement,’ said Angel. ‘You know how much he hates idle hands.’

They crossed Oxford Street and edged into Soho.

‘Nevertheless,’ said Canton, ‘if you anticipate problems arising out of your activities here, I expect to be informed before they happen, not after. For old times’ sake.’

‘Is that a warning?’ said Angel.

‘Call it a government advisory,’ said Canton. ‘Unofficial, of course.’

‘Sure,’ said Angel, as they pulled up in front of Hazlitt’s on Frith Street. ‘By the way, you got any “Get Out of Jail Free” cards, just in case?’

Canton stared at him, stony-faced.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t.’

‘I’ll just take the candy, then,’ said Angel. He liberated two boxes of Milk Duds, dropping them into his pocket. ‘And thanks for the ride. Five stars, no question.’

Hazlitt’s had been recommended to Angel by Bob Johnston, a retired Maine bookseller who was now living happily in London with a woman named Rosanna Bellingham. Johnston and Rosanna had a number of shared interests, among them books, gin, and each other. Johnston had opted to stay in London after traveling over from Maine to help Charlie Parker with some research on a case. This had resulted in Johnston being rendered permanently deaf in one ear and having a number of his fingers broken, which was what sometimes happened to people who entered Parker’s orbit.

Angel unpacked, freshened up, and met Johnston and his inamorata at the Phoenix Arts Club on the Charing Cross Road, where they ate decent comfort food while resting actors sang show tunes around a piano. During the lulls between songs, Angel explained to Johnston and Rosanna his reason for being in London, and requested their assistance with what was to come.

‘A kidnapping?’ said Johnston.

‘The appearance of one,’ said Angel.

‘I’ve never kidnapped anyone before,’ said Rosanna.

‘And you’re not about to start now,’ said Angel. Rosanna Bellingham, he thought, looked to be worryingly enthused by the idea of an abduction. He believed she might have missed her vocation.

‘What if she doesn’t want to be kidnapped?’ said Johnston.

‘Nobody wants to be kidnapped,’ said Angel. ‘And for the last time, an actual kidnapping is not what it is.’

‘Bob’s right,’ said Rosanna. ‘What if she says no? Because you’ll have played your hand, and if you let her walk away …’

‘Then,’ said Angel, ‘we’ll have a problem.’

‘No,’ said Rosanna, ‘you’ll have a kidnapping.’

Later, Johnston and Rosanna walked Angel back to his hotel and said good night, but when he got to his room, he found he could not sleep. He was struck by a wave of depression, the latest in a succession both unpredictable and unrelenting in their ferocity. Angel had always been prone to bouts of melancholy – given the abuse he had suffered earlier in life, it would have been surprising had he not experienced periods of profound emotional distress – but the nature of them had altered following his recent illness, growing deeper and more emphatic. He wondered if it was a form of survivor’s guilt. He thought about speaking with Louis, but instead used his cell phone to call another number, because he knew one man who might understand how he was feeling. The call was picked up on the second ring.

‘So how is Europe?’ said Parker.

‘Full of Europeans.’

‘I detect a certain absence of joy.’

‘I hurt,’ said Angel simply. ‘In my heart and in my head.’

‘Then let’s talk.’

And they did.